


all i want for christmas is you

by peltonea



Series: Gifts, trades and exchanges [1]
Category: Far Cry 5
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Eden's Gate Cult, Christmas, Christmas Fluff, F/M, Gift Fic, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-05
Updated: 2020-02-05
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:00:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22572889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peltonea/pseuds/peltonea
Summary: Sarah Rook’s first Christmas Eve with John Seed doesn’t exactly go to plan.No-cult AU.(An extraordinarily late secret santa gift for SoleSurvivorKat)
Relationships: Deputy | Judge/John Seed, Female Deputy | Judge/John Seed
Series: Gifts, trades and exchanges [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1847263
Comments: 2
Kudos: 21





	all i want for christmas is you

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SoleSurvivorKat (Kat123)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kat123/gifts).



> I’ll be honest. Generally speaking, I absolutely hate secret santa gift exchanges, for a lot of reasons. This year, there were a lot of people I wanted to give gifts to, but I don’t have a lot of time lately, and sending physical gifts would be pretty difficult (and, again, extremely time-consuming). So my discord buddies agreed to hold a mini secret santa of our own. I was randomly assigned to create a gift for Kat.
> 
> Truth be told, I don’t know if this is any good. I hope it is. I sincerely hope I’ve done Kat’s lovely OC, Deputy Sarah, justice (if you haven’t already, check out Kat’s works, her writing is INCREDIBLE). All I can do is hope that my love, respect and gratitude for Kat shine through these words (and, of course, for the rest of the PB sweethearts who each have made my existence infinitely better in their own unique ways).
> 
> Merry (extremely belated) Christmas, Kat. I hope you enjoy this cheesy Hallmark Movie romance. It was originally going to be much longer, but… it’s pretty long already, and I didn’t want to keep you waiting. Please excuse the rushed ending OTL

Sarah Rook checks, for the fifth time in as many minutes, that she has John’s Christmas gift tucked into her purse. It’s there, just as it was thirty seconds ago, carefully wrapped in blue paper with a little navy-silver ribbon. It’s not exactly an exciting gift, but it comes from the heart, and hopefully John’ll like it.

…or maybe he won’t. Maybe it’s too presumptuous— they haven’t been dating all that long, just a few months, and she probably missed the mark entirely. He probably has a thousand at home, what with Joseph being a pastor, probably doesn’t even want another, considering his constant spiritual crisis… damn it. Sarah bites her lip. It’s too late to change it now. Stupid, stupid, stupid…

Sarah glances around, readjusting her scarf for warmth, then the strap on her duffle bag. John’s not here yet, and the bakery across the road from the Spread Eagle is still open. It’s not too late to buy a small tin of gingerbread, or something, right? John probably wouldn’t even care if it wasn’t wrapped… 

Sarah closes her eyes for a moment. John wouldn’t, but she would. John’s been so good to her. Always such a gentleman. So patient, so gentle. Especially this last month, when her mom’s passing hit her all over again, like a freight train, just like it does every year. He deserves the best she can give. And a hasty gift-swap wouldn’t exactly be the best, would it?

Anyway. It isn’t the gift that counts. The important thing is that they’re spending their first Christmas together as a couple. Christmas Eve, just the two of them, maybe some cocoa and a movie, and then Christmas Day with John’s family. They’ll go to Joseph’s services in the morning, then spend the afternoon eating too much food, playing games, cracking jokes, dancing to cheesy music, celebrating in a way Sarah hasn’t been able to for many years now. 

It’s going to be good, Sarah thinks. It has to be. 

Sarah hears John before she sees him. A low-pitched, angry muttering that doesn’t bode well. John always gets so wound up when he’s cross— it always takes a long time for him to calm down.

“—thankful I’m not suing you for your incompetence… No, you listen to me, I demand a refund.” A pause, and then, a little louder: “I don’t care that it’s Christmas Eve, just get it done!”

There’s a pause, for ten seconds, then twenty. Then John rounds the corner, hands in his pockets, a frown marring his handsome face. A bag from Fall’s End Bakery hangs in the crook of his elbow, and he’s wrapped up even more warmly than Sarah: he’s wearing a North Face jacket, with a scarf tucked into the collar, and a surprisingly stylish bobble hat drawn low on his forehead. Even after all these years in Montana, he’s still not used to the cold up here. Still prefers the heat and humidity of long Georgia summers— something Montana gets pretty close to in July, but definitely not in December.

“John!” Sarah calls, with a smile and a wave. Maybe she’ll be able to take his mind off whatever’s got him so worked up. She hopes so. 

John glances up, and brightens immediately. 

“Sarah,” he replies, and he opens those long arms of his and draws her into a warm hug. “As beautiful as ever! Sorry I’m late.”

“It’s okay,” Sarah returns the hug. He smells good, his cologne something expensive and slightly spicy. 

“How have you been?” John asks, releasing his hold and stepping back. John always asks that, even though they saw each other yesterday. 

“I’m fine,” Sarah replies. “Actually, I’m better than that. I saw Kim earlier— she said Carmina’s been asking when she can come back to kindergarten. Says she misses her friends and Miss Rook.”

“Children are adorable at that age, aren’t they?” 

“They are,” Sarah agrees. It would be nice to have some one day, but for now teaching kindergarten is enough. St Isidore’s isn’t a large school by any means, with fewer than a hundred students, but it covers Hope County’s needs. “How are you, John?”

John’s face freezes for a split second, a barely-noticable moment of hesitation before he replies: “I’m great. Everything’s fine.”

It’s not hard to read between the lines. Something’s gone wrong. Not a big something, else he’d have called off their plans. But it’s big enough to bother him. Sarah smiles what she hopes is an encouraging kind of smile and reaches out her hand. 

“Then let’s go,” she says. “I brought some cocoa and marshmallows with me, I hope you don’t mind.”

“Of course not,” John takes her hand and looks a little less on edge. He holds up the bakery bag with a charming grin. “They’ll be delightful with the brownies I just got us.”

Sarah lets John lead her to his car (still warm, smelling of pine air freshener and coffee). He flicks the radio on: Silent Night plays, a pretty choral version. The drive to his ranch is smooth and scenic, right up until the moment they turn off the asphalt and onto the dirt road that leads to the house, and Sarah manages to hit her head against the passenger window as the car dips into a deep, frozen tyre track. 

“Are you all right?” John asks, panic tingeing his voice. 

“I’m fine,” Sarah reassures him. It was a shock, but that’s about it. She gingerly touches the tender spot on her skin. Doesn’t feel bad— she probably won’t even bruise. 

Nevertheless, John apologises and drives even more carefully. When they pull up outside the house, he’s out of the car in a flash, insists on holding the passenger door open for her, holds out a hand for her to grip as she slides out, and then insists on taking her by the crook of her arm, leading her up the wooden steps to the front door. Very gentlemanly, but very unnecessary. 

“You don’t have to do this,” she giggles, and John kisses her temple. 

“I don’t have to, but I want to,” he says, and leads her inside.   
John’s home is just as warm and welcoming as ever. There’s a fire crackling in the hearth, and there’s a beautifully-decorated Christmas tree erected in one of the reading corners, gifts scattered underneath it. There are pretty fairy lights strung around the rafters, stockings near the fire, and a small nativity set in the glass cabinet. 

John takes Sarah’s coat and her hat and scarf, ushers her toward the couch. 

“I have a surprise for you,” John says, and he gestures to the coffee table, where a shoe-box and a gift bag lie waiting. He quickly hangs up their outdoor wear before plopping himself down next to Sarah, offering the bag to her. “Come on, take a look.”

Sarah takes the bag, gingerly. She’s never sure what to say in situations like this. ‘Thank you’, obviously, but repeating it endlessly seems to leech away much of the meaning. There’s carefully-crinkled crêpe paper, and then nestled inside that is a bundle of cloth. Sarah draws it out, unfurls it. 

The dress is gorgeous. It’s an elegant cocktail dress, black lace with long sleeves and exposed shoulders, just about long enough to fall to her knees. It must’ve been expensive. 

“Why don’t you put it on?” John suggests, clearly excited to see her in his gift. Sarah starts to nod, until her eye catches the label.

“Oh,” she says, stomach sinking. “This is beautiful, but…”

“But…?” John presses, squeezing her hand encouragingly. 

“It won’t fit me.”

John blinks, and he frowns. 

“What? Of course it will. Just try it, hm?”

Sarah shakes her head. Opens her mouth, then closes it. 

“John, it’s a size six.”

“Is that too big?” John asks, hesitantly. 

“No, it…” Sarah gives a little, awkward, chuckle. “I’m too big.” She clears her throat. She’s been meaning to lose a couple pounds for a while— maybe this is a sign… “I usually wear a ten or twelve— maybe fourteen. You know, depending on the brand…”

“Oh.” John looks down at the dress, his cheeks flushing pink. Then he looks back up at her and squeezes her hands again. “No, you’re— you’re perfect. We can head up to Billings at the weekend, get it exchanged. I’m sorry, I just— the model looked so much like you, so I thought…” 

“It’s okay,” Sarah replies, and she smiles. He’s doing his best. It was a nice thought, even if she can’t wear it. “It’s a beautiful dress. Thank you.”

“There were supposed to be earrings and a necklace, too,” John says. “And some shoes. But there was a problem with the shipping and, uh…’” he trails off, looking flustered, then clears his throat. He smiles, reverting right back to being charming, like one of those romance movie love interests. “Anyway. How about something to eat? I made us something very special.”

“You cooked for us?” Sarah asks, delighted. She’d known John could cook, of course. His spaghetti alla cacio e pepe was to die for. She hadn’t been expecting it tonight, though. Not when there’ll be so much cooking to do tomorrow. 

“You’re going to love it,” John says, all but bouncing to his feet. He grabs Sarah’s hands, guides her up with him, a bright smile on his lips. “We’ve got Caprese salad to start, tiramisu to finish, and for the main course… Osso buco.”

“Osso…?” Sarah asks, as she’s lead over to the kitchen. 

“Osso buco,” John says again, a perfect Italian accent. He’s talking with his hands, the way he always does when he’s excited, the disappointment over the dress mistake now forgotten. “Osso: bone. Buco: hole. Originally from Italy’s Lombardy province— where Milan is— it’s slow-cooked, cross-cut veal shanks in a rich, tomato-based sauce. It’s beyond compare.” 

John switches on the light, revealing that the kitchen table is already set for dinner, complete with intricately-folded napkins, and a small bucket filled with ice and prosecco perched on a nearby stool. He draws one seat out, raises an eyebrow invitingly, and Sarah sits down. 

“Is there anything I can do to help?” she asks. She already knows the answer, of course, but it feels rude to not ask. 

John shakes his head, as she knew he would. “Just sit tight, I’ll only be a moment.”

John saunters over to the fridge, takes out a couple dishes and a small bottle of balsamic. One of the dishes contains said Caprese salad: he starts plating up, an expert drizzle of olive oil and balsamic to finish, a little freshly-torn basil and salt sprinkled on the top. He sets those plates to one side for a moment, peels the saran wrap from another dish, and takes the lid off the slow cooker. 

John pauses. 

“For God’s sake!” he snaps, throwing the dish in his hands onto the counter with a loud clatter. Sarah jumps, involuntarily. She knows John would never hurt her, but his rage can be… well, it’s loud. Unpredictable. 

“Are you all right?” Sarah asks, taking a few steps toward him. 

“Of course not!” John snarls, and he gestures at the cooker. “It didn’t fucking cook!” 

Sarah peers into the slow cooker. She can see celery and carrot, lots of tomato, and two raw shank steaks. The smell is a little nauseating: the fresh, aromatic scent of the vegetables and the garlic, and the slightly salty, metallic smell of raw, bloody meat. 

“Oh,” she says. “Well… it’s okay.”

“It’s okay?” John asks, clearly irritated. “It’s okay? I completely ruined our evening, and it’s okay?”

“It’s not ruined,” Sarah says, and John glares at her. 

“It is!” he insists. “I was late meeting you, I screwed up your dress, and I made you feel bad. The jewellery and the shoes didn’t arrive, and I couldn’t even turn on a damned slow-cooker! Now we don’t have anything to eat, and the whole evening is—” 

“The whole evening is fine,” Sarah cuts him off. 

“It’s not,” John hisses, and he wipes his eyes with the back of his sleeve, his frustration bubbling into self-directed anger.

“It is fine,” Sarah insists, and she takes hold of his other hand, balled into a fist at his side. “I didn’t come here because I wanted gifts. I didn’t come here to eat osso buco with you. Those things would be nice, sure, but I came because I wanted to spend time with you, and with your family.”

Sarah leans up to place a kiss against John’s temple. 

“There’s no need to worry,” she murmurs. “These things happen.”

“It was supposed to be better,” John insists. “You deserve better.”

“So do you,” Sarah replies. “You deserve better than beating yourself up over little mistakes anybody could make.”

“I’m sorry,” John says. 

“It’s okay,” Sarah replies, and she kisses him again. “I mean it.”

John still looks miserable when she pulls away, so Sarah puts on her metaphorical problem-solving hat. 

“Don’t worry about dinner,” she says. “I don’t care what we eat, as long as we eat it together. Look, I can see you have bread. You have cheese too, right?” 

John nods. 

“Okay, then we’ll have grilled cheese,” Sarah declares.

“That’s not good enough,” John tries, and Sarah shakes her head. 

“It’s plenty good enough,” she says. “I told you, I don’t care. If you really want something classy, we can add a bunch of fancy cheeses and some bacon, or something. You have those, right?”

“I… yes, there’s more mozzarella, and I have…” John tilts his head to the side. “Well, the bacon is supposed to be for the pigs in blankets, but we can borrow a couple slices tonight…” 

“It’s settled, then,” Sarah says. “It’s fine.”

They end up eating the Caprese salad standing at the counter, John gently frying the bacon while Sarah gets the grilled cheeses started next to him. She puts the radio on: Wheaty’s playing some pretty fun renditions of seasonal love songs. All I Want For Christmas Is You is enough to force a smile out of John, get him tapping his toes while they wait for their dinner to toast in the pan. 

It’s not the perfect Christmas Eve John wanted, but it’s perfect to Sarah. It’s the most fun she’s had this time of year for… well, decades. Even when John teases her by taking a bite of her tiramisu, when she gets whipped cream on her nose, when they manage to spill the marshmallows she bought all over the kitchen floor, it’s perfect and she wouldn’t change it for the world. 

Eventually, though, they’re both exhausted from dancing and teasing and talking themselves hoarse, and they wind up back in front of the fireplace again. John’s reclined on the couch, so Sarah’s taken the liberty of reclining more or less on John— he makes for a surprisingly warm, soft pillow. 

As the clock on the mantlepiece ticks past twelve, John whispers in her ear. 

“Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas to you, too,” she replies, and presses a soft kiss against his lips. Then she remembers— she still hasn’t given him his gift yet. “Actually, I got you something.”

“For me? Oh, you shouldn’t have,” John says, but he props himself up against the armrest, watches her carefully as she fetches his gift from her bag, those blue eyes glittering with excitement. 

“It’s not much,” Sarah explains, handing over the carefully-wrapped present. The paper is blue, like John’s eyes, patterned with little aeroplanes. It’s adorable, just like him. “Still…”

“I’m sure I’ll love it,” John reassures her, pressing a soft kiss to her fingers when he takes the package. He opens it carefully, peeling back the tape rather than tearing the paper, and stares blankly at the item within. 

Sarah bites her lip.

“It’s a Bible,” John says, blankly. He slides the hand-made bookmark out of the pages and holds it to the air, his eyes scanning over the words she’d so carefully etched into the paper. 

You are fearfully and wonderfully made. 

It’s from her favourite psalm, 139. It had been a source of strength during dark times, when she was bullied as a child, when her father distanced himself, when she looked into the mirror as an adult and found it impossible to see anything worthy of love. She’d like to think it was written all those centuries ago by someone just like her: someone who wanted to love themselves but couldn’t, someone who knew the Lord they worshipped, trusting in Him during a time they couldn’t quite trust in themselves.

_Verse fourteen: I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made; your works are wonderful, I know that full well._

John had confessed to many things during their time together. His sordid past, including his various addictions, as well as his overwhelming self-hatred and rock-bottom self-esteem. How his faith had wavered time and time and time again, despite Joseph making it all look so easy. How he wished he could be the kind of person he portrayed himself as: confident, outgoing, effortlessly productive, someone who didn’t have anxiety or depression. 

John gazes at the bookmark for a long moment, his knuckles turning white around the Bible. 

“It was a stupid idea,” Sarah says. Damn it. Stupid, stupid, she’s so _stupid_. “I’m sorry, you probably have a thousand already, right? I’ll—“ 

She doesn’t get a chance to offer anything else, because John’s got his arms wrapped around her, his face pressed into her hair.

“It’s perfect,” he mumbles into her her ear, holding her close. “Thank you.”

Sarah can’t help but laugh. 

“No, thank you,” she replies, and they stay like that for a long time, curled up together on the couch. “This is perfect.”

John laughs a short, bitter laugh. He pulls away from her, looking away. 

“I doubt that,” he says. 

“It’s true,” Sarah insists. “Being here with you is everything I wanted. It’s perfect to me.”

John doesn’t say anything for a long moment. He just holds her, fingers playing with the ends of her hair. 

“Thank you,” he murmurs. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” Sarah replies, and she captures his mouth in a kiss. 


End file.
